Rekindling
by EffieTrinkett12
Summary: 'Peeta and I grow back together.' But, after all the pair have been through, it's certainly not going to be quick, or easy. And some things will never truly leave them. The story of how, exactly, Katniss and Peeta rebuild themselves and the pieces of their relationship after the rebellion.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Peeta and I grow back together. Slowly. I suppose it begins on the day he arrives back from the Capitol, finally released from the care of Dr Aurelius. I am more than touched by the primrose bushes he decides to plant for her, but I don't think I really believe he's here that first day. As though I could wake up at any second and find he was all a part of my dreams. Or my nightmares, I can never be sure which.

I have to accept him as real, though, the day after my trip into the woods. Without warning, he arrives in the morning with Greasy Sae, bearing a loaf of warm bread in place of an explanation. He watches, but doesn't question, as I feed my breakfast to Buttercup, tears sliding down my expressionless face throughout the whole meal. Not a word passes between us even as Greasy Sae leaves, my gaze remaining fixed on the spot on the floor from which the cat has long since ambled away. When I finally manage to look up, maybe minutes, maybe hours later, I expect him to have vanished. But he sits next to my mother's knitting basket, absently picking through pieces of wool.

I'm cautious. Peeta has been so many different people since I've known him that I don't trust my ability to read him any more, not one bit. But, knowing that I have to start somewhere, that I _want _us to be two halves of a whole again, I walk over to where he sits, and I speak first.

"You…" My voice is hoarse, but enough to make him look up. I nod at the length of wool in his hands. "You could tie knots in it. If it would help. Like Finnick."

"It's not like rope, though," Peeta says, "You can't get the knot loose again with wool. It can't be undone."

"Not many things can."

He shakes his head slightly in agreement, and for a long while we don't say anything else. While I've spent days on end alone happy to simply stare into space, Peeta's presence makes me want to busy myself. I collect our plant book from the study, and while I'm there, I search once more through the box which was delivered back here with me. My father's hunting jacket. My parents' wedding photo. Haymitch's spile. Peeta's locket. I run my fingers over its polished surface, before leaving it unmoved in the box and returning to the kitchen.

It was crazy to think it would have somehow appeared in there, that I could possibly have missed it the first time. But in the chaos, my blurred memories of the final hours of the rebellion, I know it could have been lost anywhere. I'll never see it again, but that doesn't stop me from wanting it.

I've been sitting, leafing over and over again through the pages of the book, when I feel his weight tentatively sit down at the other end of the sofa. I don't look up.

"I lost it," I say, "Your pearl."

"_Our_ pearl." Is Peeta's reply.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" He whispers, but I know he doesn't expect a response. We both know that question has far too many answers. A tear slips over his cheek, and I slowly extend my hand, inwardly begging him to take it. He doesn't disappoint me. He never has.

It's all the physical contact either of us can manage, for now, but it gives me the courage I need.

"Is…" I know it's time for us to start piecing things together. This was never going to be easy. "Is there any part inside of you that still sees me as dangerous, sometimes?"

Peeta considers. "Yes. Is there a part inside of you that's still scared of me?"

"Yes." There's no use in being anything but honest with each other now. We literally have nothing left to lose. "I'm scared because I've stopped knowing you like I used to."

"I'm scared because my mind keeps taking me back there. I can't always hold on to the here and now."

"What _is _the here and now?" I ask, and for the very first time, his lips turn upward by the tiniest fraction. I wouldn't even notice if it were anyone but him.

"It's this, Katniss. It's what we've got left."

For now, we don't speak any more about things of consequence. We both move along the sofa slightly so we are side by side, but still not touching. We flip through the plant book together, commenting here and there. He occasionally picks up a pencil and makes tiny adjustments to the drawings. Buttercup sets up camp at my feet, his eyes fixed on Peeta, guarding me. But no more than we're guarding ourselves.

Finally, we come to a page and both freeze at the sight of the small, instantly recognisable berries. I see his eyes widening, his pupils dilate, and I shiver at the thought of what horrific falsities the Capitol could have planted in Peeta's head. The real memory of the Nightlock is bad enough without their manipulation. This time, it's Peeta who holds out his hand, but I can't help but be wary of taking it.

But I do, and he squeezes, just like he did the day of the first reaping when we were all but strangers.

"You suggested what we do with the berries," He says slowly, "Because you wanted to save both of us. You weren't trying to kill me. You didn't want me to die."

His eyes ask the question rather than his mouth, and I'm quick to tell him "Real."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The following day is one of my darker ones. After Peeta leaves this evening, I sit quietly in the kitchen, no longer flipping through the plant book but still clutching it in my hands. With nobody else in the house, I slip once more into my usual state of inertia. I stare into space, and my mind begins to wander, not quickly, but with the same weariness that now accompanies all of my actions.

I think of what Peeta has said, that this is what we have left. But is it really enough of a foundation to rebuild a life from? To rebuild _anything _from? Aside from each other, we have lost absolutely everything. And it's not as though we even truly have each other, both of us are shadows of our former selves; suffering separately from the effects of too much horror to comprehend. All we are doing now is existing. And at times I can't even seem to manage that.

Like now. After hours of utter stillness, it is a sharp meow from Buttercup that snaps my head up from where it has been resting listlessly on the arm of the sofa. I don't even remember how or when I moved into a lying down position, but this doesn't phase me. What causes me to make the strange, strangled noise from my throat is glancing down at my hands and realising that I've been clutching our plant book so hard for so long that the tight skin is now a ghostly white, my veins a deep, prominent purple.

Without warning, the image of Foxface's cold, dead face flashes before my eyes, hijacking my vision, the deep purple of the deadly berries in contrast to the sickening white of her slack face. Next is the picture of President Snow's puffy lips coated in the brightest red blood, the smell, tinged with roses, consuming all of my senses. Image after terrifying image bursts through my mind, and I feel myself slipping more and more out of control. My heart is racing, my head pounding, it's possible that I'm screaming, but I'm so far removed from my own body that it's hard to know or care. Peeta's soothing words never cross my mind once. Nothing exists but pain. Misery. Loss.

When I finally become aware of myself, I am lying flat on the concrete floor of the kitchen, unsure whether or not I have been unconscious. A glance to the window reveals that dawn had already broken, but more importantly the action invokes a sharp pain in my head. When I raise my hand to the spot above my eye, it is covered in blood. It takes every single inch of my self control to drag myself upstairs rather than simply collapse back onto the floor, and as I crawl across the kitchen I acknowledge, even if I don't think on, the plant book lying open across the room, several of its pages badly ripped.

Finally, I reach my bed, ignoring the blood erupting from my head, and this is where I remain for the best part of a day. At times, I slip into a nightmare-wracked state of unconsciousness, and at others I lay in a blissfully ignorant waking coma. I am vaguely aware of Greasy Sae's voice calling up the stairs at what must be mid-morning, something about leaving me breakfast but needing to get back to town so not staying. It suits me.

She's back, though, later in the afternoon, and this time she's bursting into my room, cursing me for not moving or eating all day. I give her little thought, keeping my eyes closed and willing her away – but I've forgotten entirely about the unexplained wound on my head. Sae is alarmed now, and tries to force me into moving, but I don't cooperate. I thrash, I make myself as heavy as possible, I even scream, anything to get her hands off when I physically can't stand anyone touching me. Finally, after much shouting and even a sharp slap to the face to try and snap me out of it, she gives in, marching out of the house, and I am alone again.

I should have known, though, that she wouldn't give up that easily, as not long after there is another presence in the house, a somehow gentler one. I remain motionless in my position facing the wall as Peeta enters my room and calmly sits down at the other end of my bed. He doesn't touch me.

At first, him being there does nothing to change my state of mind. Everything still seems hopeless, all reason to live still gone. But eventually, just as it happened last night, I begin to feel slightly more inclined to be active. Slightly foolish, even, for the way I have behaved. Still not sitting up, and ignoring the pain, I finally turn my head to face him.

"Hey," Peeta says kindly, "How are you?"

"I'm ok." My voice is almost a whisper. And even though he doesn't ask: "I guess I hit my head."

"I guess so. Is it hurting you?"

"Yeah." And then, because I know he's too caring to touch me when I don't want him to, and because Sae has undoubtedly told him of my earlier resistance, I'm the one to ask him. "Will you help me?"

Peeta nods. "Of course I will. With everything."

When he's finished cleaning up my head, my eyes move to the mirror in the bathroom, and the thin, exhausted looking girl with blood matted into her too-short hair that stares back at me.

"I don't recognise her." I say, as Peeta joins me, and we take in the new versions of ourselves.

"Or me. Either of them." He admits, "It's going to take some getting used to, isn't it."

"How do you do it?" I suddenly turn to face him rather than look at the stranger in the mirror any longer, "How do you handle being in your house by yourself?"

"I don't, really." He shrugs, sitting down on the edge of my bathtub, "I guess… Well, even after the Games, my family didn't want to come and live with me, so I've always been alone in there. You haven't been by yourself in this house before, having had your mother and Prim."

My eyes fill with tears, but I know it wasn't said to hurt me. While everybody else has skirted around the topic, Peeta's mind doesn't work like that since everything. He's honest until the end, and he knows I'm the person he can say anything to. I find I don't mind it, that I almost appreciate hearing her name come out of someone else's mouth. It makes her more real, somehow.

"The story you told me about how she got her goat," Peeta's browless eyes crinkle, "In the cave. Real or not real?"

"Not real." I admit, "If I'd told you the truth in the arena while they watched, I would have got everyone into trouble."

"Gale?"

"Well, yes. And Greasy Sae, and our old Peacekeepers, and lots of other people; they'd know we were hunting and trading illegally."

"So tell me the real story." Peeta slides down so he's sat on the floor leaning against the bath, and holds up his hand to me. I don't take it, unsure.

"Now?" I falter, "But I-"

"It'll help you." He insists, "Both of us. I have…" He swallows with difficulty, "I have some memories of that cave. Shiny ones. Awful ones, which I'm sure are full of lies they've forced into my head. If you tell me your story, well, it'll help me know what exactly is real. Don't worry," He adds hastily, seeing my expression, "I know the awful parts about you aren't. But if I can secure the rest of it, the real stuff in my head… Well, I'll just be a lot happier. And I'd like to hear you talk about Prim. So we can remember her together."

I know he's deadly serious. And I want to help him in any way I can, so I take his hand, and I sit down facing him on the soft bathroom rug. It takes me a minute, but after another reassuring squeeze, I start to talk. The real story of how Gale and I got Prim's goat. Afterwards, he tells me about he and his brothers' cat, despised by his mother, which of course only made them grow fonder of it. We move back into my bedroom, uncomfortable on the bathroom floor. I tell him more about Buttercup, the way I've sort-of adopted him now but how begrudging both parties are with Prim gone.

We talk until it's almost morning again. We shed a few tears. We also laugh, just a little, which I haven't done yet, and I'm surprised it can still feel almost good. He's telling me now how little he sleeps, how hard he finds it in that house all alone, and with so much to haunt him.

"When I close my eyes," I agree, "All I can see is them. All of them, everyone we lost. And they follow me. Sometimes… Sometimes you're there. And you're telling me it's all my fault, and you still think I did it all on purpose, and you-"

"Katniss." Peeta stops me, but not harshly, as he can sense me getting worked up. "Please don't worry about that. Please. We both have nightmares, and we both know they make every night unbearable. But maybe… Maybe if we can help each other make the _days_ a little more bearable, then we'll get better."

"Slowly." I say.

"Slowly." He agrees. I manage a small smile, studying his face. I can tell he's right, that he's barely slept recently, and I think maybe I can help.

"Lie down." I whisper, and while he sits looking a little surprised, I swap the bloody pillowcase on the bed for a clean one. "Please. I want to help you." Finally, Peeta nods, and as he lays down, I rest my hand very gently on his forehead. He blinks at the new contact between us, before sighing and leaning into it.

"Thank you for helping me today." I say simply, "You knew just what to do."

"So do you." Peeta's voice is already tinged with drowsiness as he closes his eyes, "Thank you, Katniss."

I know, as I reply with "Goodnight, Peeta. Sleep well," that he is already asleep. I sigh, almost happy that I've helped him, even a little, in return for today. I silently fetch a blanket, settle down on the couch in my room, and find that I, too, fall into sleep just a little bit easier with him here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello readers! Just to apologise for the unexpected delay in this third chapter, it hopefully shouldn't be so long again. Many thanks for those that have read and reviewed so far, feedback and any suggestions for improvement are always very much appreciated and encouraging. Don't hesitate to let me know what you think! Enjoy x**

**Chapter Three**

Of course, I am wracked with nightmares. There hasn't been a night since the games when my sleep hasn't been haunted, and tonight is as bad as any other. Maybe even worse, given that they focus solely on him.

It's strange, the way my nightmares usually work. Of course I would stop them if I could, would return to peaceful nights, but I find myself becoming just slightly more able to deal with them. The dead people that force their way into my brain and cause me to wake, over and over, hysterical with fear… Well, they have a right to haunt me, deserve to punish me for the parts I played in their deaths. And I find myself more able to cope because deep down, in the most rational of my waking hours, I know that even without me, many of them still would have died. Those lost in the Games, for example, those killed by the Capitol. They, I have to tell myself to stay sane, were not down to me.

But Peeta is different. He is living, breathing, and as of recently, very much still a part of my life. And every single thing that is wrong between us is because of me. Me agreeing to play along with the Star-Crossed Lovers charade, knowing how my pretending would hurt him. Me pulling the ridiculous stunt with the berries, knowing I ought to sacrifice myself and let the right person win. No berries, no rebellion. No lies for the cameras, no false stories of marriage and babies, no kidnapping, no hijacking. No weakness of mine for Snow to hone in on and exploit. No broken hearts, no battered minds.

In my nightmares tonight, I see this demonstrated over and over. How my actions have tortured him, exaggerated and twisted by my guilty subconscious into a never ending stream of ways for Peeta to be beaten. Tortured. Executed. Hijacked to the point of being nothing more than a warped, inhuman monster. Forced to compete in Hunger Games after Hunger Games, all the while holding his head high and never letting them own him.

But somehow, the nightmare that truly terrifies me the most contains none of these things, and is the one that finally hurls me back into consciousness. There is no blood, no gore, no death in the literal sense – Just he and I, and we're by the side of my lake. His appearance is not scarred, or emaciated, simply _tired. _And he's angry with me, so, so angry, but so, so calm. Matter-of-fact in his explanation of exactly how I have destroyed him, made him how he is today. I manipulated him, he tells me, used him. Led him to believe I felt the same as him, before ripping all hope away from him. Ignoring him in the months before the Victory Tour, and then expecting to fall back into the old routine. Spending those nights with him on the train, using him for my own comfort, without a care for the emotional torture I was putting him through. Suggesting our false engagement without a shred of emotion, giving him hope, but not enough, that I felt something for real. Kissing Gale. Loving Gale. Always going back to Gale, with Peeta as my back-up.

As he accuses me of everything I know to be true, I don't flinch, don't show a single sign of emotion, or shed even a single tear. This just sums it all up, epitomises quite how cold my treatment of him has really been. And finally, as he picks up the bow designed for me by Beteee, his movements still calm and weary, I don't make any attempt to escape. He looks right into my eyes as he aims at me, no hesitation on his face, and simply says "You deserve this."

And then he loads an arrow, and he shoots straight.

Somehow, as I sit bolt upright, I have enough awareness to clap my hands over my mouth to smother my scream. Breathing heavily, I untangle myself from my blanket on the couch, and look over to my bed, where Peeta sleeps soundly on. I can't look away from him, and now the tears do come, slipping silently over my cheeks. I know why that nightmare was the worst. It's because unlike the rest, there is no grotesque exaggeration. It was true, down to his last words. I do deserve to be dead.

Suddenly, I can't stay in this room while he sleeps peacefully, with the hint of a smile on his face highlighting just how truly good he is, to his core, while I am rotten. I leave him.

Greasy Sae looks startled, but more than a little pleased, to see me up and about and having eaten my breakfast long before she arrives. She smiles sadly at the extra food I've made and set aside for Peeta, whenever he might wake.

"I see I did the right thing sending the boy round," She says as she examines the carefully cleaned up graze on my head, "I'm glad you'll let _somebody _take care of you."

I give her a small, begrudging smile, "I'm really thankful for you taking care of me," I say, and it's true. I'm still not sure why exactly she comes every day, why she hasn't given me up for a lost cause like the rest of the world, but it's nice. It's good of her, and good to feel even that little bit like I am worth saving.

She rolls her eyes, and pats me good-naturedly on the hand, having clearly deemed my injury nothing to worry about. "Now, can I trust that the two of you will be good enough to feed yourselves this evening?"

"I made breakfast, didn't I?"

"Hmm." She mutters, but seems to decide that I'm sound of mind today and leaves without too much more questioning. I'm by myself again. I move restlessly from seat to seat, waiting and waiting for Peeta to wake up, but he doesn't. Truth be told, I'm afraid for when he does, with the nightmare swimming in the forefront of my mind. How will I face him now? How could I have let myself draw even that bit closer to him last night? Clasping his hand, touching his head, reigniting even the tiniest sparks of what we used to be.

But we can't be that way again. Ever. Not after what I've done; I couldn't inflict myself upon him again. He deserves so much more than half a person who showed him such cruelty even when she was whole.

The sharp ring of the telephone snaps me out of my thoughts, and I drop the lengths of wool that I've been absentmindedly tying simple knots in, unable to undo them. _I can't let it wake him, _is all I think, and so I pull the plug out of the socket before it's even finished ringing once. It has never once occurred to me, in the months I've been back, to answer.

Now that I'm not solely focussed on my nightmare, I need to keep it that way, if only for a small part of my day, so I make my way to Haymitch's. Predictably, he's flat on his back on the sofa in his living room, a bottle in his hand dangling towards the floor and his rusty knife in the hand which is pressed to his heart.

I look at him now, and feel nothing. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice is screaming that he needs help, that we could be there for each other, that the old Katniss would never detach herself from the people that care about her; from the things that matter. She's quickly silenced, and my face remains expressionless. I kick the edge of the sofa, and Haymitch doesn't stir, but his eyes slowly open. Another kick, and still no response. It's when I lean forward to take his bottle, not out of kindness – I couldn't care less if he drinks himself to death at this point – but purely hoping to disturb him, that he sighs.

"What the hell do you want, Katniss?" He can't even manage a _sweetheart_ or a _Mockingjay. _Not that I am either, anymore.

Giving up on him, and unsure what I actually hoped for in the first place, I go back outside. But I don't want to go back into my house yet, Peeta is there, and I don't want to go back to Haymitch's either. I don't want to walk into town. I don't want to hunt. If I stay still, I'll start to think, and I don't want to do that either, so I hurry into Peeta's house, purely because I have literally nothing else to do.

It looks even less like a home than mine. With our few worldly possessions, our house was never overly decorated, but my Mother and Prim kept it sparkling and warm and gave it that almost, _almost_ feeling of being safe. Not that it was enough, in the end. But Peeta's house looks exactly as it did on the day we moved into the Village. It's surprising, really, given the artist in him, I think as I wander between the rooms.

He has a larger oven than mine, and cupboards full of flour and other ingredients that I wouldn't know where to start with. At least he has something that keeps him going, while me… Well, it seems all I have is him. And I don't even particularly want to go near him.

The phone rings, and because I'm in a different environment, perhaps because I know it can't be for me, I'm compelled to answer it.

"Hello. This isn't Peeta." I say.

"Katniss," Says the cool voice of Dr Aurelius, "Clearly not. Is everything ok?"

"I'm in Peeta's house." I have no idea what I'm supposed to say here, "I'm… Getting him some clothes. He's in my bed."

There's an almost audible sigh from the other end of the line, but I don't have the energy or the interest to derive any meaning from it. "How have the two of you been getting along, since I let him come home?"

"I don't know."

"Have you been spending a lot of time together?"

"Some."

"And you've managed to stay calm with one another? None of the old distrustful feelings?"

I don't have an answer for that, so I simply stay silent. He seems to know he's rushed me, and he tries again: "Katniss, do you find yourself trusting Peeta?"

"Sometimes." Why can't I bring myself to say more than one word to the Doctor? The voice in my head is back now, telling me that this man can help me, that I can get past everything if I explain myself to him fully. Still, the only elaboration I manage is "Mostly. He doesn't seem to hate me now."

"Good. Very, very good," Dr Aurelius pauses, "Katniss, I know that right now things still seem so, so bleak. And I also know that in time, they can get better, if you let me help you. But I need you to talk to me. You say Peeta seems better? Well, me and him have spoken every day, and when things are hard, he tells me and we work through them together. I need you to trust that I can do the same for you. Can you do that?"

Once again, I am unable to fathom a reply. Yes, it has been good to hear a new voice for the first time in months, to feel even that tiny bit connected to the outside world, and more importantly, to be told that people still care. But everything else is on the back of my mind, pressing forwards, and there is surely too much pain and damage there for a few telephone conversations to be able to fix.

"Katniss, next time I call your house, will you answer me?"

I hang up. He can't get at me that way, can't encourage the voice to nag at me any more about such useless things as _feelings. _I shouldn't have listened to him for a second, shouldn't even have answered the phone. Doesn't the useless Doctor know I'm just the shell that Katniss used to live in?

I return to my house carrying fresh clothes for Peeta, and stand tentatively in the doorway to find him sat by the fire, entranced by the flames as he slowly toasts a piece of the bread I left out for his breakfast. He looks up at me with the closest thing he can manage that resembles a smile.

"Care to join me?" He tries to joke, "We waited long enough to make the wedding official, didn't we?"

"Well," I say, holding out his clothes, unable to deal with the concept of joking today, "That was then." The smile disappears. He nods, and takes his clothes from my outstretched hands.

"Thanks." Peeta says, "Listen, Katn-"

"Oh, my god!" I cut him off. I can't believe I'd forgotten it. Utter panic spreads through me as I realise how stupid I've been to forget something so important, and as I rush towards the kitchen to find it I trip on the carpet, ending up sprawled on the floor and sobbing.

"The book!" I manage, "Peeta, our plant book, I forgot, it's ruined, it's ripped, it's-"

"Shush." Peeta leans down and says bluntly, with enough force to shock me into being quiet, before leaving the room. The old him would never silence me in such a sharp, insistent way, but somehow I know this new him isn't doing it out of malice or anger. And sure enough, he returns an instant later and sits down beside me, not touching me, holding out our plant book without a word.

I carefully flip it open, tears still running down my face, and expect to see it as ruined as it had been when I glimpsed it on my way to bed following my episode the other night. Instead, miraculously, the damage is unnoticeable. The pages have been so carefully joined back together, the hard back so well reattached that not one word or drawing has been lost.

Breathing heavily, my eyes still swimming, I look up to Peeta, whose small smile is back.

"How… How did you fix it?" In response, he asks me with his eyes to make sure I don't object, before gently taking one of my hands in his.

"You were wrong about the knots in the wool, Katniss. They can be undone, and so can most things. Just like this." Somehow, Peeta has done it again. He's brought me back from the brink.

"Nothing is beyond repair."

The next day, under the influence of his words, I plug my phone back in at the wall. And when Dr Aurelius calls from now on, I answer every time, without fail.


End file.
